Missus Edelstein
by Microwave Slayer
Summary: In the beginning there was self-loathing and pain. Then Roderich came to terms with what those meant and she was going to have to keep her composure. [A male-to-female Austria fanfiction.]
1. Sick

Roderich Edelstein lived according to conservative values.

When he passed homosexual couples, he frowned (Although his marriages were different. He was doing it for political reasons.). When he heard of the list of partners the others of his kinds kept, he shuddered (Roderich himself had only ever had three bed companions through his long history and that was more than enough). When he saw the things other nations "hid" in their pockets or purses, he was revolted.

So why was he up tonight wondering why something felt . . . off?

Roderich sat up and stared at the clock. 2:07 AM. He sighed and turned to face the empty half of the bed. Then he decided to turn over again, lying on his left side as he stared at the wall.

Something was whispering to him and Roderich listened, unable to make out any of the words. He thought, trying to figure out what it was and finding nothing. He shut his eyes, trying to sleep.

He turned over again to look at his alarm clock. 3:56 AM.

With a sigh, Roderich lay on his stomach and clutched his pillow tight. He knew exactly what it was now.

In the closet, a black ghost hung. Roderich liked to imagine the skirt fluttering just the way it did when Eliza wore it, but he knew that was impossible. He made sure he closed the closet door every night to keep that spectre in the closet where it belonged.

Not that it helped much.

Roderich had memories seep into his head. Him staring enviously at the ladies of the Austrian court with their long, swaying, layered skirts. Him staring as women began wearing shorter skirts, then pants. Him staring in the mirror while he tried on the black dress Eliza had left behind.

He turned, laying on his back, and stared up at the ceiling in utter horror and disgust. The dress fit him, mostly, and it felt nice to wear it.

Roderich sat up, staring at the clock for salvation. 5:28 AM.

He got out of bed and went to make some coffee. If he remembered correctly, he had the card for a therapist someone. Maybe it wasn't too late to schedule an appointment.

The worst outcome would be a repeat of Freud's fraudulent misdiagnoses.

Roderich sighed and sipped his coffee before picking up the cordless phone with shaking hands. He slid the business card on the counter closer despite his eyesight being fine. One hand freed so Roderich could sip his coffee again.

Finally, he began to press the buttons, messed up twice, and put the phone up to his ear the third time. Ringing. Roderich waited, sighing a bit and sipping his coffee again.

The ringing changed in an instant to the voice of a woman who Roderich could only assume needed coffee to wake up as much as he needed it as a distraction. She repeated, snapping Roderich out of his musings, "How can I help you today?"

Roderich told her, in a hushed voice, "I need to make an appointment with . . ." He stared at the card and told her, "I need to schedule an appointment with Doctor Whittle as soon as possible."

Roderich heard the clacking of computer keys and he assumed the woman was staring at the schedule for the doctor on a screen. Everything was electronic now. Then she told him, "He'll be free this Tuesday at eleven. Will that be alright? It's the soonest I can get you in, I'm afraid."

Roderich stared at the calendar and noted it was only Saturday. Slowly, he nodded and told the woman on the phone, "Tuesday is alright with me. Thank you."

"Have a great day," the woman recited in the flat monotone business trained. Then Roderich hung up and put the phone back on its cradle.

He would just have to wait until Tuesday and avoid doing anything strange.

That day went by without incident. So did Sunday. Monday was a different story.

Roderich was determined to exorcise the spectre in the closet by any means necessary. He flung open the closet door, yanked the hanger holding the creature, and stared.

He meant to throw it away or call Eliza to give it back to her. Instead, to his dismay, he slipped out of his clothes and into the dress.

It suited him. The skirt was long enough, ending just past his knees and, while the dress had the potential to be low-cut on the right woman, Roderich found the softly curving neckline complimented his features. He never had overly broad shoulders and the dress made his shoulders look only more slim and feminine.

It suited him and Roderich hated himself for it. Monday was a failure and so was he.

As he took the dress off and went to shower, Roderich almost hit the mirror.


	2. Start

**AN****:** This chapter switches between narrative and Roderich's journal, so it may be confusing.

* * *

"Tell me about the way you've felt about cross-dressing," the doctor told Roderich gently.

Roderich looked up, jarred out of some self-loathing murk. He sighed and admitted, "I hate it and I hate myself for it."

"Well, why is that?" Doctor Whittle asked, staring at Roderich with concern and care.

"It's disgusting," Roderich told him. "Men should _not_ wear skirts and I should _not _feel comfortable in my ex-wife's dress."

"So why don't you stop trying on the dress?" the man asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I . . ." Roderich began, realising the doctor was right.

"Why don't you keep a journal?" the doctor asked. "If you're cross-dressing due to stress, the journal might help. Either way, I would like to see you again next week to discuss this."

Roderich nodded politely, though he though—in more polite terms, of course—the man with the clipboard and stupid horn-rimmed glasses was full of shit. He shook his hand and told him, "Thank you for the suggestion."

Roderich stepped out of the man's office feeling more upset than when he walked in. Upset enough to smoke.

Roderich drove himself to the nearest corner store and got himself a pack of menthol cigarettes and cheap wine. As he passed an office supply store on the way home, he stopped in to get a notebook and some pens.

Maybe writing it out would be his salvation.

_**Tuesday, April 21.**_

_** Wore the dress yesterday and hate myself for it. Stupid therapist thought I do it out of stress. I do it because I'm a disgusting creäture.**_

Roderich paused his pen to snub out his cigarette in the ashtray by the bed and sip the wine straight from the bottle. He made a face, but swallowed the liquor and continued to write.

_**Maybe I'll burn the dress tomorrow.**_

He sighed and crossed out "tomorrow" to replace it with "the day after tomorrow." He sipped his wine with one hand and closed the journal with the other.

_**Wednesday, April 22.**_

_** Bought nail polish while stocking up on aspirin. Wine last night was an awful idea, but the cigarettes were a good investment. Painted my nails and I've spent all day chipping at the damn paint. It's like concrete.**_

Roderich closed the journal and set it on the nightstand next to the cigarettes. He glared at the polish on his nails, scratching at it again to try to chip it. After five minutes of chipping, he gave up and lit another cigarette.

_**Friday, April 24.**_

_** Couldn't write a single thing yesterday, too upset. The house is so empty now that everyone's gone. I could dress up if I wanted to, but it's disgusting. Smoked a whole pack of cigarettes (except the three I smoked before) yesterday. Still feeling upset, but felt I had to write something.**_

Roderich closed the notebook and set it next to the full ashtray. He wanted another pack or another bottle of wine. Anything to distract him from the almost crippling solitude.

"Damn, filthy thing," he muttered to himself before curling up in bed.

_**Sunday, April 26.**_

_** Eliza came over yesterday and I gave her the dress back. Good riddance, but I feel like it was a security item. Having it there meant she had lived here, that there was proof she existed. Now it's gone and so is she. **_

_** I want to invite someone over, but I'm so afraid they'll notice the chipped polish or the scent of smoke.**_

Roderich tossed the notebook on the floor, lying back in his large, empty bed and staring up at his ceiling. Slowly, even though he tried to hide it, he began to cry. The silent tears turned into wheezing sobs that racked his body.

He wept for Eliza, feeling terrible that he had driven her away. He wept for Ludwig, feeling guilty for needing him so much. He wept for his many spouses that he never loved them as much as Eliza or Antonio. He wept for Antonio, feeling like he never gave the happy man enough credit.

Finally, he wept for himself, feeling more scared, confused, and upset than he ever had been in his life.

_**Monday, April 27.**_

_** Have to see my therapist tomorrow. Cried again last night. I feel so awful. It's a kind of disease that festers. I'm so scared and confused, but I don't want to ask for help.**_

_** I've never been strong a day in my life.**_

Roderich closed the journal and set it aside. He bought another pack of cigarettes yesterday and he lit one up. After a few puffs of smoke, he picked up the pen again.

_**If I keep smoking like this, I might just get lung cancer.**_


	3. Family

"So would you mind if I read your journal?" Doctor Whittle asked Roderich.

Roderich shook his head, handing over the notebook. Once it was in the doctor's hands, Roderich glared at it as though it was a poisonous snake.

The therapist read it over, saying nothing. Roderich took the opportunity to not the cactus on the desk and the child's drawing on the wall. The therapist himself sat in a leather chair facing away from the window and toward the—considerably soft—couch reserved for patients.

"It sounds like depression," the doctor noted. "Guilt, too. Why is that, Roderich?"

Roderich told him, "Because I've wrong a lot of people, some of them I loved."

"Why don't you try making amends?" the doctor asked. "It might make you feel better."

Roderich sighed and told him, "Those are old wounds. I shouldn't open them."

"There's no harm in trying, Roderich," Doctor Whittle promised. "Continue your journal, try to make amends, and I'll see you next week."

Roderich took the book back, shook hands politely, and went back to his car. Once inside, Roderich lit up a cigarette, smoking by himself and thinking about how utterly full of crap this therapy was.

He turned to his phone and texted Eliza, asking if they could have dinner together. She replied with plans of a "family" arrangement and inviting Roderich.

His fingers shook as he texted her and told her that he would come to dinner.

* * *

_**Wednesday, April 29.**_

_** Dinner was okay. Feliciano and Ludwig were there. Gilbert went out with his friends. Eliza is, and always will be, a fantastic cook.**_

_** Eliza pulled me aside and hugged me. I cried like a small child. I mumbled a few apologies and she kissed my forehead. I wish her only best.**_

_** I apologized to Ludwig simply and he shook my hand. Feliciano tackled me, crying about me dying. I assured him I was not dying.**_

_** I've never felt more accepted anywhere.**_

Roderich smiled a little, setting the journal aside. He stared out at the backyard from his couch. He decided, as he stared at the weeds choking the life out of the plants and soil, that he would garden.

He went upstairs, getting dressed and grabbing his wallet. Roderich went out to his car, slipping in the driver's seat. He started the car, adjusting the mirrors and opening the garage door. He pulled out, closing the garage door, and drove off, to the hardware store.

Roderich went directly to the gardening section. As he inspected sunflowers and lilies, he caught sight of a blond man wandering about. He stared fixedly at the sunflowers, breath held.

"Roderich?"

Damn. Caught. Roderich looked up, hoping his faux shock was working.

"Roderich," Francis purred. "I'm glad to see you outside. You always look so pale." He looked over at the sunflowers before nodding and telling him, "Those should do nicely in your garden. Maybe some white lilies."

Roderich murmured, staring at a strong sunflower, "My garden has fallen into chaos. I needed new plants."

Francis nodded, commenting, "Gardening is a stress-relieving activity. It would do you wonders."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Roderich asked, glaring at the Frenchman.

Francis cupped his cheek and murmured, "I can tell you're hiding things, Roderich. You always look so stressed and sick. I wish I could help."

Roderich didn't flinch away from the contact. Instead, something stretched painfully, to the point of snapping. His eyes welled with tears and Francis took a more paternal look.

"Come along," Francis whispered, hand gently grabbing Roderich's upper arm. "Come with me, Roderich."

Roderich's vision blurred and he placed his trust in Francis. Soon, gentle fingers were wiping Roderich's tears. He found they were off in a secluded corner and Roderich watched Francis.

"Tell me what's wrong," Francis murmured, hand moving to Roderich's shoulder. "My lips are sealed."

"You do a lot of unsealing them," Roderich snapped.

Francis only looked mildly amused. One hand (soft, if Roderich was to be completely honest) rubbed his back.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be," Francis told him. "You're clearly upset, Roderich. Talk."

Roderich nodded and admitted, staring off at some sage, "I'm seeing someone."

"You're getting married again?"

"No," Roderich told him, staring at Francis. "A therapist."

"Whatever for, Roderich?"

Roderich admitted, "I was cross-dressing."

"That's nothing to cry over," Francis told him softly.

"It is!" Roderich insisted. "A man shouldn't feel comfortable in his ex-wife's clothes, Francis! It's strange and a man who does it is deeply disturbed."

Francis kissed his forehead, leaning up slightly to do it, and murmured, "You're so silly, Roderich. Come over for dinner one of these nights. You need family time."

"I had family time the other night with Eliza," Roderich told him, trying to shrug off the blond.

"We should get together, though," Francis told him. "You do need to be with people. If you want, Matthew can come by and sit with you."

"I'm not an old woman," Roderich insisted. "I'll be fine on my own."

Francis shrugged and backed away, giving him space. He whispered, "You're not sick, Roderich."

Roderich opened his mouth, ready to shout at Francis. The blonde left, calmly and with plenty of flowers in his basket.

When Roderich looked down, he found a small white lily blossom in his own basket.

* * *

_**Thursday, April 30.**_

_** Started up with my garden again. Lilies and sunflowers look lovely together. Might plant edelweiss in the bare patch by the oak tree.**_

_** Still think I'm sick and no one can tell me cross-dressing is fine.**_

Roderich snubbed out his cigarette angrily. He glared at the porcelain piano and cello Francis bought him to put in the middle of the dining room table. He scooped up the ornament, glaring at his scarlet nails.

He threw the thing and it shattered against the wall. His fingers were soon covered in red and, this time; it was certainly not nail polish.

* * *

_**Friday, **__**April**__** May 1.**_

_** Might agree to go to dinner with Francis. It can't be that bad and I have amends to make with him.**_

Roderich fixed his clothes, making sure he looked fairly masculine. He wore gloves, covering his nails and all the nicks on his fingertips.

He stared at himself in the mirror and it took all his self-restraint not to smash it.

* * *

_**Saturday, May 2.**_

_** Francis was NO HELP. He wore a skirt and paraded around like a woman. He must be sick and trying to get me to be just as sick.**_

_** At least I know there's something wrong with me.**_

Roderich hissed as he accidentally opened one of the slower-healing cuts, smearing blood on the margin of the page. He huffed, throwing the book against the wall.

"Goddamn it," he murmured to his empty bedroom.

* * *

_**Monday, May 4.**_

_** Therapy tomorrow. Cuts healed, no scarring.**_

_** I'm sick. Honestly and truly sick. I want someone to stop me. I need to stop me.**_

Roderich lit up another cigarette, pacing and smoking. He had so much to worry about. Eliza hadn't called and Francis had. Maybe Eliza told Francis about Roderich's issues. Maybe Francis was out and, despite his promise of sealed lips, telling Gilbert and Antonio and that _infuriating _American.

Roderich grabbed his keys and went to go find himself cheap, shitty wine.


	4. Help

"Tell me about your week," Doctor Whittle told Roderich, ignoring the journal on his lap.

"Everything's in the book," Roderich grumbled, crossing his arms.

"I think you need to talk about your week, though," the doctor replied. "Tell me how you've felt."

"Upset," Roderich admitted. "I'm still upset over Eliza's dress."

"Why is that, Roderich?" Doctor Whittle asked, noting something on a clipboard.

Roderich snapped, "A man shouldn't be comfortable in his ex-wife's dress."

Doctor Whittle asked, "Did she come get her dress?"

After a moment, Roderich realized his outburst was silly and he nodded, head lowered as he stared at his hands. The doctor watched and Roderich eventually looked up, murmuring, "I overreacted."

"Yes, but did she get her dress?" Doctor Whittle asked, staring at Roderich with concern.

"Yes," Roderich told him. "She got it a long while ago."

"Then why do you feel so upset about it?" the doctor asked.

"Because it's a sign of illness to dress up in your ex-wife's clothes," Roderich told him. "I'm ill."

"Not at all," the doctor assured him, opening the journal without breaking his concerned stare at Roderich. "You're just working through difficult things."

Roderich huffed, crossing his arms as the doctor began to read silently. Roderich stared at a blank patch of pea green wall, some dark part of his mind fuming.

"You've injured yourself?" the doctor asked, making Roderich jump.

"No," Roderich told him quickly. "Not on purpose."

"It says here you've had cuts," Doctor Whittle noted. "And there appears to be blood on the page."

"It was an accident. I . . . dropped something and cut my hands cleaning it up," Roderich told him, shrugging and looking at his lap.

"You're sure?" the doctor asked.

Roderich shrugged, not making eye contact.

"I'll see if we can't get you some antidepressants, Roderich," the doctor said softly.

Roderich's head turned, neck creaking, and he hissed, "I'm not depressed, I'm not suicidal, and I don't need to try and medicate my problems away."

Doctor Whittle's eyes widened and Roderich cursed himself for acting like a child. Slowly, the doctor handed the journal back and told the pianist, "Well, what would help you, Roderich?"

"I think this has gone on long enough," Roderich muttered, taking the journal. "I think I'll do quite well on my own."

The doctor raised an eyebrow and asked, "Do you really think so, Roderich?"

Roderich's only reply was to stand and hurry out of the room. In the solace of his car, Roderich settled on another cigarette, smoking with shaking hands as he drove home.

* * *

Roderich preferred to be warned about when guests showed up. It was bad enough he had trouble remembering whether he locked doors when he went out or got lost despite having seen Vienna grow before his very eyes. When he knew guests were coming, Roderich could try and make the house a little neater, put a memorandum for himself.

When he came home to find the front door unlocked, Roderich reached into his pocket, grabbing his keys with the hand free from the journal, just in case.

Before he could open the door, he found Ludwig standing there. The blond was dressed casually—a button-up and tie—and he stared at Roderich with concern.

"Would you like—"

"No," Roderich told him. "I can be self-sufficient." He squeezed past the blond, storming into the kitchen.

"Roderich, please. We're all worried about you," Ludwig told him, closing the door. "Let me hang your coat up."

"I'm _fine_," Roderich insisted, tossing his coat on the couch. "I just . . . I had a stressful day."

"Doing what?" Ludwig asked, standing on the threshold of the kitchen. He folded his arms, watching Roderich pour himself a glass of cheap, red wine. "Where do you go these days?"

Roderich sipped his wine and then tossed the journal into the trash, which was emptied. He wondered if Ludwig had done it and dedcided that the blond most likely had picked up. It made him feel terrible, so he grew more thorns and sipped his wine again.

"What's that?" Ludwig asked, staring at the book in the bin.

"Garbage," Roderich replied. "That's why you throw things away, isn't it?"

"Would you mind if I read it?" Ludwig asked.

"Go ahead," Roderich mumbled, knowing Ludwig would read whatever caught his eye. "It's just rambling, really." He turned, staring out at the backyard and made a note to work on his garden.

Ludwig had the journal open, clutched tightly in his hands when Roderich turned to look over his shoulder. From the intense stare, Roderich thought the blond would faint.

"Go read it in the living room," Roderich told him, frowning.

Ludwig grunted, moving without looking up from his reading. Roderich sighed, sipping his wine and waiting for the fallout.

After thirty minutes, it happened, but not in the way Roderich prepared for.

After thirty minutes, Roderich found himself wrapped up in strong arms. He sipped his wine, cursing Ludwig's ability to be so fast.

"Roderich, why?" he asked softly, hot breath making Roderich shiver. "Why won't you let anyone help?"

"I'm sick, Ludwig. It's not something you fix, it's something you make better," Roderich told him, frowning.

"Roderich, no," Ludwig murmured. "Roderich, you're not sick. Please, I can help."

"Ludwig, you're still a child," Roderich replied, voice harsher than he meant to be. "When you've lived through what I have and can manage to hold down a lunch, then you can help. When you're seen people die and still don't understand how ill you truly are, then come talk to me."

The arms didn't loosen and Roderich finished his wine, turning to pour himself another glass. Slowly, Ludwig let go and left the room, left the house.

As Roderich drank to his own misery's health, he noticed that Ludwig washed the mountains of dishes Roderich never got around to.


	5. Active

Roderich found moping quickly became something he was good at. He spent his days smoking, sipping wine, and laying about. He knew no one would bother with him, so he allowed his appearance to go to hell.

Days slipped by without visitors. The front door only opened for Roderich's midnight trips to collect the tools of his coping. Weeks slipped by into a lonely month.

Then the doorbell rang.

* * *

Roderich was lying on the couch, dozing lightly and thinking heavily. The doorbell rang as a whip cracks and Roderich groaned as he stirred.

He rolled off the couch and shambled to the front door, grumbling, "I don't know why anyone would bother coming here."

When he opened the door, Roderich almost slammed it shut. Eliza stood, holding a bag in one hand. Two steps behind her, Ludwig stood rigidly and looked guilty and embarrassed.

"Roderich you look awful," Eliza noted, reaching up to touch his cheek. Roderich caught a whiff of her perfume and flinched away from her touch.

"Roderich, she wants to help," Ludwig said.

Roderich looked between both of them and stood aside to let them in. Eliza hurried in and gently took Roderich's wrist, whispering, "I got you some new clothes."

Roderich perked up and followed Eliza upstairs. Ludwig trail behind them, making Roderich feel a little wary. Soon, they were in the master bedroom and Ludwig closed the door behind them.

Eliza explained, "Ludwig showed me the journal and I knew I just had to help." She set the bag on the bed and began rummaging through it. She pulled out a dress-a sleek, elegant evening gown-and held it up, looking from Roderich to the dress and back again.

Roderich began, "I'm not-"

"Not without a shower," Eliza replied, laying the dress carefully on the bed. She took Roderich's hand and led him to the bathroom.

Roderich wasn't surprised at how much better he felt after Eliza shaved him in the places he preferred to maintain. He felt a weight lifted, but the weight was not grime. When she scrubbed him down after, Roderich felt even better. Eliza knew him well and used that only to help.

As he sat on the edge of the bathtub and Eliza towel-dried his hair, she noted, "You let yourself go and them act like a doll."

"Why should I fight you?" he asked. "I never wanted to fight you."

Eliza chuckled, helping Roderich up and murmured, "You sentimental old man."

Roderich flinched at the word "man" and knew Eliza saw it. He kept his head bowed while she wrapped him in a towel.

"I understand, Roderich," Eliza murmured, hand on his hips. "You're scared, confused, angry."

Roderich cringed because she was right. Before he could open his mouth to deny it, he felt her arms around him. Something broke and he cried, bawled like a child while she held him and comforted him.

"Let's go try on that dress," she whispered as he began to calm.

Roderich only nodded and let Eliza lead.

* * *

Ludwig took one look at Roderich wrapped in a towel and the blond turned a violent scarlet, coughing as he excused himself from the room. Eliza chuckled in spite of Roderich's embarrassment. She went and closed the bedroom door, turning to smile at him.

Before Roderich could be modest and try to rush back into the bathroom, Eliza began to unravel the towel and her barrage of questions distracted him.

"Isn't this a wonderful colour?"

"Won't this just flatter your figure?"

"Do you need help with that bra?"

"Which of these panties do you like better?"

Roderich soon found himself dressed—rather comfortably, if he was to be honest—in a sleek gown. Beneath that was a bra Eliza made fit him and a paint of women's panties. He twirled for her and then crossed his arms over his chest.

"What's wrong?" Eliza asked, frowning. "Is something too tight?"

"I'm a pervert," Roderich muttered, staring at the floor in shame.

"No," Eliza told him firmly, hands on her hips. "You're beautiful."

"I'm a man, though," Roderich argued.

Eliza shook her head and cupped Roderich's chin, forcing him to look at her. She kissed his cheek and told him, "Not necessarily."

Roderich opened his mouth to argue, saw the stern look in Eliza's eyes, and closed his mouth. Instead, he murmured, "Thank you, Eliza. This is . . . comfortable."

"Good," Eliza told him. "Now go show Ludwig how stunning you look."

Roderich smiled a little and nodded. When Eliza let him go, he walked off, barefoot, to try and find Ludwig.

As he came down the steps, Ludwig stopped his pacing around the foyer and stared up at Roderich, turning violently scarlet again.

"You look . . . amazing. Perfect," Ludwig told him.

Roderich only smiled in reply.


End file.
